


Only you

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Immortal Sherlock, John and Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mostly Johnlock, Parentlock, Proclamations of love, Sheriarty - Freeform, Soulmates, Viclock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 07:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12700287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: 'I was present when Guido Fawkes was caught in Parliament in 1605. I danced with Marie Antoinette in Versailles, and I sang a duet with Queen Victoria. My son and I played tennis with Tsar Nicholas II and his daughter, I was in Germany when it was taken by the Russians, and I played bridge with Winston Churchill at Chartwell house every Friday for ten years.’ He pauses, and looks John directly in the eye. ‘And, most importantly, I met a man named John Watson. I took him out, I made love to him, I laughed with him and- and I loved him. Out of all these people I have known, you, John Watson, are the only person I have ever loved, and you are therefore the most important person who has ever existed.’





	Only you

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and leave kudos :)

 

He wakes on the last day of August, 1586, and immediately knows that something has changed.

Maybe it is the stillness of the air: dank, warm, so stagnant it almost hurts to breathe. Maybe it’s the creeping darkness over his bedchamber, shadowing the room. Maybe it’s just the feeling, deep in his chest: loss, sadness, loneliness.

Or, maybe, it’s because he’d experienced it before over the past seventy-five years, exactly six times. Firstly for his father, with dysentery; then Hadrian, with smallpox. His mother, Lila, Peyton and Cedany had all been struck with the influenza: and now, finally, Asher. Unlike the others, Asher had lived to the point where it is no longer disease but decay of the body that kills: that explains, Sherlock thinks, as he stares out of his window for the horse he knows will arrive, why he didn’t feel any symptoms as he had with the others. The bond between the _immortalem_ and their family is well-known and well-documented, but you couldn’t quite describe how it felt to feel a part of your soul flutter away.

 _Heart-breaking._  

In that moment, he feels horribly alone. Because alone is what you are, when everyone that you love is gone, and it doesn’t matter that he is one of the Queen’s favourites and he has everything he could ever desire, because the _immortalem_ are in higher demand than tobacco, that new but _brilliant_ substance, or a title or even a first-born son. What was the point of material goods if you had no one to share them with? What is the point of a title and tobacco (Sherlock doesn’t have, and never imagines he will have, a first-born son) if he is alone-

And then, as if by magic, he hears the clip-clop-clip of a horse on his track.

He doesn’t bother getting dressed, because the servants are used to Master Sherlock, with his odd moods and his periods of silence and his constant midnight trips to Lord knows where: wearing night-clothes is barely noticeable, anymore. He simply pushes himself out of bed and stands, facing the window with his back to the door, and waits. In the ever-expensive glass of his bedroom window, the shimmery reflection of a twenty-three-year-old with eyes that had seen eight decades stares back at him.

A creak of a door, and Sherlock raises his gaze to meet the eyes of a thirty-year-old with eyes that have seen over eight decades, leaning heavily on a sword.

‘Brother mine,’ the man says, and Sherlock’s heart feels a little less heavy. ‘Mycroft.’

That’s all that needs to be said. Wordlessly, the two remaining sons of Siger Holmes, two of the _immortalem,_ step towards each other and embrace each other in a gesture that Sherlock knows will last a millennia. Mycroft holds Sherlock as he held him when they were children, before they knew of their gift, curse, weakness, and Sherlock clutches onto the smooth material of his doublet and cries, both in sadness for the family that he has left behind and in relief for the family he has left.

*

When Sherlock awakes on Christmas day, exactly three-quarters of the way into the 17th century, he immediately knows that James is gone.

They’d had another fight the night before, one of their screaming rows where all the servants lock themselves in their chambers and stay as quiet as mice. James had an unfortunate tendency to lash out when he was in that mood (not at Sherlock: never at Sherlock), and many a maid and manservant had ended up with broken limbs, bruised arms, crushed bones.

They are running very low on servants.

Sherlock sighs and stands up, slipping on a gown and walking to the window. James’s horse, Sebastian, is still here, standing quietly next to Hadrian (he names all of his horses after his once-family, as it helps him to remember them), and the snow on the ground looks undisturbed. He must still be in the house, somewhere, lying in wait, ready to-

‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock stiffens, but does not turn around. The voice, that velvety tone with the delicious accent, as soft as a summer’s day. The voice that has been with Sherlock for eighty years: first as colleagues, and then as companions, and now…

James is approaching him, his feet loud on the wooden floor, and Sherlock closes his eyes as the older man pauses, slightly to his left. ‘Sherlock…’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’ He’s been thinking it for a decade, maybe more, and now he’s finally said it he feels as if he can breathe again, for the first time in a long time. ‘We cannot do this, James, I am not strong enough to do this.’

James wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He’s smaller than Sherlock, his forehead resting on the back of his shoulder, and Sherlock closes his eyes. ‘James…’

‘I have a temper,’ James replies. ‘I have a temper. I’m sorry about that, but I love you.’ Silence. ‘As you love me.’

He doesn’t want to tell James he loves him. He wants to tell James that he scares him, that he wishes they’d never met, that he lives in constant fear, that he lives the life of the oppressed. He doesn’t think James knows what love is: he certainly doesn’t think _he_ knows what love is.

He certainly knows that him and James can’t spend the rest of eternity together. Two _immortalem_ together sounds like a good idea, in theory, but put it into practice…

Sherlock needs mortals. They remind him what is good in the world, their excitement at life almost catching. They remind him that life, mortal or eternal, is a gift.

James doesn’t view life as a gift. James views life as something that must be extinguished, in order to gain power. He is Mycroft without the self-control.

Speaking of Mycroft…he reaches into his pocket and touches the letter. Today, he decides, he’s going to take Mycroft’s advice. Today, he’s escaping, leaving, fleeing.

‘I’m going out,’ James whispers. ‘And when I return, I will make last night up to you.’ Sherlock finally turns around, staring into those violet eyes, the symbol of the _immortalem,_ so like his own. _I won’t be here,_ he says in his head, but James will surely stop him. ‘Good,’ he hears himself say. ‘Be swift.’

James smiles, kisses him lightly, and leaves the room. Sherlock hears him go downstairs, hears the slam of the front door, and then watches as he breaks the blanket of snow.

After that, it’s easy. He dresses, puts a note under the head servant’s door telling him to get out as quickly as possible, and goes outside. Hadrian, his horse, is easy to saddle: Sherlock estimates that he has about half an hour before James realises he’s gone, and Mycroft is about an hour’s ride from him.

He mounts Hadrian and brings him out of the stable. The path is clear of snow, and the house, looming and dark, no longer scares him.

‘Goodbye, James Moriarty,’ Sherlock whispers. With a kick of his flanks, Hadrian is running, and Sherlock is free.

*

‘Sherlock-‘ Victor throws his head back, and Sherlock bites hard on the soft, white skin of the other man’s neck. ‘You need to be quieter.’

Victor pushes Sherlock away from him, glaring as fiercely as he can, but Sherlock is so overcome with arousal that he can barely think. ‘Quieter? How am I meant to be quieter? You are the one- you are the one causing these sounds, you are the one making the noise.’

Sherlock nods, moving closer to the younger man, clasping the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. ‘A pause. ‘But to stop the sounds I’d have to stop doing this,’ he kissed Victor, gently, ‘And this,’ he threads his hands in Victor’s hair, ‘And this.’ He pulled them back together, craving the feel of Victor, every part of Victor, back against him. ‘Do you want that?’

‘God, no,’ Victor breaths, and they are kissing again, much more fiercely than before, Victor trying desperately to take off Sherlock’s dinner jacket (the 18th century, at the very least, has led to vast improvements in men’s formal attire) and Sherlock focusing on the beat of his heart. It isn’t like the hearts of the _immortalem_ don’t beat, but there is something so fragile, so beautiful, about the steady thrum of a mortal heart, and Victor’s mortal heart is all he has. It’s all he needs.

‘I want you,’ he hears himself say, and Victor opens his eyes, brilliant green meeting bright violet. ‘I love you.’

Silence. It is not a phrase they use, not a phrase many people use, and Sherlock realises that he has almost forgotten what love feels like. He loves Mycroft, he supposes, but it is a love that had evolved into something that doesn’t quite fit the bracket of the word. He loved his family, his first love, Francis, back before he stopped aging (almost three hundred years ago, he realises with a start). He’d thought he loved James.

And now Victor, staring at him with such hope in his eyes. The younger man has given up so much already for their secret love: his family, his home, his reputation, and yet Sherlock cannot bring himself to say those three little words. He doesn’t know what that sort of love is, and he hasn’t for a long time: possibly ever, even. Had Francis been a love, or a lover? Had James been a love, or a drug?

‘I need you,’ Sherlock whispers, and Victor nods. ‘I thought so.’ He smiles, a heartbreakingly happy smile, and brings his hand up to caress Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I can love for both of us.’

An hour later, having been awoken by the sound of something hitting his window, Sherlock leaves Victor asleep in their bed and saunters downstairs, relaxed, relieved and rested. ‘Colin,’ he calls to his butler as he pads into the kitchen. ‘Any news?’

‘A letter came, Lord Sherlock,’ Colin replies. ‘Delivered by a man of…a man of your situation.’ He pauses. ‘He had a look of madness, if I can say, my Lord.’

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. ‘Sounds like my brother. Was it my brother?’ Then, a pause. ‘Do you know my brother? How long have you been here?’

‘Thirty years, Lord Sherlock,’ Colin says, and Sherlock huffs. ‘I haven’t seen Mycroft for half a century. Let’s read it, then.’

He recognises the handwriting of the address, and opens it carelessly: he’s expecting the usual drivel from Mycroft, the _we should arrange a rendezvous,_ the _I do hope you’re not being stupid, Sherlock,_ the _I’ve been promoted to a new office in government._ He strikes a match before he even begins reading, ready to burn.

The moment his eyes rest on the words, the match falls from suddenly-limp fingers.

One word. _Checkmate._

And, from upstairs, the scream of the man he wants, needs, _loves._

*

‘Why don’t you get married?’

Sherlock rolls his eyes and glares at the camera. ‘Can we hurry this up, please?’

‘Manners,’ Mycroft hisses from slightly behind the photographer. ‘You have all the time in the world, Sherlock.’

Felix, perched in between his mother and father, fixes Mycroft with a withering glare (Sherlock feels an intense sense of pride). ‘Daddy is 383 years old, Uncle Myc. He has no time. He might die at any moment.’

‘We need to go over your understanding of the biology of the _immortlaem._ ’ Irene clasps her son’s arm, turning him towards the camera. ‘But he’s right.’

Mycroft looks smug. ‘What did I say? Irene wishes to marry you, brother-‘

‘Good lord, Mycroft, _no._ ’ Irene is shocked, Sherlock can tell immediately. ‘My entire business is based on my _un-marriedness._ ’ She pauses and touches Sherlock’s upper arm, in a gesture that has become utterly familiar to them both. ‘Neither of us want it.’

‘You have created a child.’ Mycroft’s face, if possible, has turned even sourer and Sherlock wonders if he’s smiled at all in the past four hundred years. ‘You cohabit. You- you engage in physical intimacies. What sort of example are you setting for your son?’

‘My son will potentially have eternity to follow my example,’ Sherlock snaps, ‘And he is perfect. Look at him.’ Felix smiles, and Sherlock winks: Felix copies him, closing his violet eye and leaving the blue one open. ‘Amazing.’

They’re not quite sure if Felix is an _immortalem,_ and will not until he stops aging at any point between his eighteenth and fortieth birthdays. Irene hopes he is: Sherlock is not quite sure. The weight of eternity, as he has found, is often unbearable.

‘Besides,’ Sherlock adds, ‘We both prefer the touch of those of the same sex as us.’

At this the photographer, who has sat valiantly through the whole improper conversation, falls backwards into a faint, just as the camera goes off.

Later, as they frame the photograph depicting Sherlock sprinting towards the falling photographer, Irene half-standing and Felix smirking in delight, Sherlock broaches what Mycroft said: what, for the majority of the day, has been playing on his life. ‘Marry me, Irene Adler.’

Irene looks at him, her eyes wide and intelligent. That was what appealed her to him in the first place: her abnormal intelligence, one that rivalled his own, even. He’d considered himself purely attracted to men, and hadn’t touched a soul since James Moriarty murdered Victor Trevor in the late 18th century, but Irene…Irene was different.

And Mycroft is right. They have a son together, the accomplishment of Sherlock’s life, his greatest achievement and his greatest weakness. They live together. When Sherlock thinks the word _family,_ Irene is always there.

‘I’m surprised,’ Irene says, voice as calm and collected as always. ‘Why do you want to marry me, Mr Holmes? Do you love me?’

He can’t say it. He’ll never be able to say it.

‘And that is why.’ Irene smiles, a sad smile. ‘I wouldn’t have married you anyway, Sherlock. I don’t need that, and neither do you. Both of us need freedom, and both of us are here for Felix. You will be here for him forever, but he needs to be my priority.’

‘I know,’ Sherlock says, and he’s shocked by how little the rejection has upset him. ‘I know that.’

‘As far as I see it, we enjoy the positives of marriage without the negatives.’ She reaches up, smiling seductively, looping her arms around his neck. ‘We should not play with that. We should not…expose ourselves.’

She’s referencing Moriarty, and Sherlock’s heart twists a little. _Victor._

‘You have too many ghosts for me to join you in wedlock.’ He laughs at that, because never before has he been so perfectly summed up: _you have too many ghosts._ ‘My dear Irene, I fear you may be right.’

‘I’m always right.’ She kisses him, softly, and pulls away. ‘You’ll find someone who can handle your ghosts, one day. When human beings can- can fly, can communicate with a man on the other side of the world at a whim, can be who they are without fear of persecution.’

Sherlock shakes his head, smiling. ‘Such a future is not possible. The science behind it-‘

‘Don’t be smart.’ She shoots him a devastatingly beautiful smile, before turning away. ‘That’s what I do. Now, I am going to put Felix to bed, and you are going to finish hanging this dratted photograph.’

He smiles, nods and watches her walk away, the mother of his son, the only woman he has or will ever want, and wonders how long it will be before the memory of that devastatingly beautiful smile is too painful for him to ever recall.

*

They’ve been together for two years when Sherlock decides he needs to tell John the truth.

It’s a good time to be an _immortalem._ He’s been able to go into hiding, wearing contact lenses that turn his violet eyes a strange blue-green mix, growing out his hair, avoiding anything and anyone that might give him away. The 21st century is alive with lies, and Sherlock…well. Sherlock thrives. Especially after the horror of the 19th century, the war and the tension and the possibility of world destruction at all times. Sherlock can’t pretend that he wasn’t a little bit curious to see if he would survive a nuclear holocaust, but it never happened (or, as he’s quick to remind himself, it hasn’t happened yet).

There was no one for him in all that time, not romantically. He was far too busy, and had vowed himself off relationships after Irene’s death almost destroyed him, but then…

Then, a man walked into his lab, and Sherlock was gone.

John Watson is a soldier-cum-doctor with sparkling blue eyes, a horrible taste in jumpers and the brightest smile that Sherlock has ever seen. He has an incredible taste for adventure, a love of dogs that rivals even Sherlock’s, and (above all) actually _likes_ Sherlock.

It’s been perfect, the last two years, but Sherlock needs to tell him the truth. He is an _immortalem,_ and John is not, and John deserves to know that Sherlock physically cannot grow old with him.

And if he leaves him...the thought fills Sherlock with a cold sense of dread. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

They’re lying on Sherlock’s bed, in Sherlock’s flat. They’ve just come from a case, and John is chattering happily, tracing Sherlock’s hand with his index finger. Sherlock has never been happier, but it is time.

 ‘John, I need to tell you something.’

John hears his voice shake and frowns, lacing his fingers with Sherlock. ‘Are you ok, Sher?’

Sherlock licks his lips. ‘I need you to listen, because I have never told anyone this whole story. To know me you- you must know this, and when you know it, you must decide if you can be with me.’

John blinks. ‘Sherlock, nothing you could say would make me not want to be with you.’

He smiles, feeling inexplicably like crying. ‘We’ll see.’ He reaches up and takes out his contact lenses for the first time in a long time. ‘John. I am five-hundred and seventeen years old.’

John’s smile freezes, and Sherlock continues.

‘I was born in the year 1499, in the time of Henry VII. My mother was a mathematician, one of the finest in England, and my father was a painter.’ Sherlock reaches into his bedside table, withdrawing the photo album he made when he’d had slow decade in the previous century, and flicked to the first picture: the painting his father had done of him and his brothers, circa 1508. ‘This holds my life in pictures,’ he said, offering it to John, who took it soundlessly.

‘I was the second-youngest of the seven of us. The eldest was Mycroft-‘ John looks up, shocked. ‘Yes. Mycroft is my genuine brother. He was twelve years older than me, but he stopped aging a lot later in life: he will look to be in his mid-thirties forever, I look in my early twenties. They know now that there is a genetic link between the _immortalem_ , but back then people assumed it was a coincidence. We were _lucky,_ even as we watched our family die, the people we grew up with die, our first lives die.’ He pauses. ‘After that, it was easier. I went through the centuries avoiding making long-term commitments to mortals, as friends, lovers, companions. It was easier to face eternity alone, and the first four-hundred years of my existence were easy enough. Until my son was born.’

John’s eyebrows shoot up, and Sherlock reaches across him to flick to another page in the album: the photograph of him, Irene and Felix, dated March 1891. ‘This is Felix.’

‘Felix?’ John says hoarsely. ‘As in- the boy you said was your brother?’ Felix comes to stay with Sherlock at least once a year, and was introduced to John the last time he was in London. ‘Yes. He looks merely a year or two younger than I, so that is our cover-story.’

John has gone very pale. ‘He looks-acts-like a normal teenager.’

‘He’s only one hundred and twenty six years old,’ Sherlock replies, looking fondly at the picture of his son. ‘He’s barely lived-’

‘Carry on,’ John interrupts, and Sherlock’s heart begins to race. He doesn’t look angry, or upset: in fact…

‘Sherlock.’ John says again, and Sherlock nods. ‘Right. Um, the 20th century was a lot more complex. Suddenly everything had risk: suddenly, I had two people to care for. It was extremely hard keeping Felix out of the army in 1914 and 1939: everyone seemed to think the _immortalem_ were indestructible as well as immortal. I didn’t know (I’ve healed gunshot wounds, stab wounds and grown back a finger but was not sure if a deadly shot to the head or heart could be recovered from) and was in no way willing to test the theory with my only child. So I bargained: I fought in the wars, and Felix stayed home. He was so young in 1914, only thirty, thirty-one, and barely grasping the concept of eternity. I did what I had to do.’

‘And…?’ John asks, and Sherlock sighs. He hates talking about the war, the pain and the anguish and the destruction of war, but it must be done. ‘I wasn’t shot in the head or the heart. I still do not know if I can die, and I have never been able to find reports of the death of any other _immortalem._ But, on the bright side, I left the war a hero, and they promised to leave me alone for a while. And that is how I have lived, for the last century. Under the radar, as free as I have ever been.’ He lets out a shaky breath and risks a look at John. ‘That is my story, John Watson.’

‘You must have been with loads of people,’ John murmurs, and Sherlock shakes his head. ‘Apart from you, I’ve had an actual relationship with three others.’

‘Tell me about them,’ he whispers, and Sherlock takes his hand and does. He tells John about James, about how perfect they seemed to be for each other, how they relied on each other, and then how it broke down to the point where Sherlock literally had to flee to be free. He tells John about Victor, about their ten short years together, about how sweet and kind and beautiful the younger man had been, about his brutal murder at the hands of James Moriarty, a man who had (and would) never forgive Sherlock for what he’d done to him. He tells him about Irene Adler, their frantic love-making in the bathroom at Oscar Wilde’s birthday party in 1884, her pale, frightened face when she turned up at his door, heavily pregnant, eight months later, the birth of his son and a life spent together. He shows John the picture in the locket he always wears, the picture of Irene, one of the great loves of his life. And then he finishes the story of his life, pauses, and waits.

There is silence, John staring at the album, Sherlock staring at John, until the silence becomes too heavy. ‘Please, John, please talk to me.’

John looks up, and breaks Sherlock’s heart. ‘How can you not be bored, with me? After all of that? After all those- Oscar Wilde’s birthday party?’

Sherlock takes John’s hands. ‘John. I am going to be completely honest with you, more honest than I have ever been in my life before. Are you listening?’ John nods. ‘I have debated scientific theory with Isaac Newton. I am credited with co-writing sonnet 116 with William Shakespeare (he liked to be called Will, though). I was present when Guido Fawkes was caught in Parliament in 1605. I danced with Marie Antoinette in Versailles, and I sang a duet with Queen Victoria. My son and I played tennis with Tsar Nicholas II and his daughter, I was in Germany when it was taken by the Russians, and I played bridge with Winston Churchill at Chartwell house every Friday for ten years.’ He pauses, and looks John directly in the eye. ‘And, most importantly, I met a man named John Watson. I took him out, I made love to him, I laughed with him and- and I loved him. Out of all these people I have known, you, John Watson, are the only person I have ever loved, and you are therefore the most important person who has ever existed.’ He stops again, and looks in concern at John. ‘Please, please say something-‘

And suddenly John is kissing him, kissing him like he’s never been kissed before. It’s a promise, a commitment and a smile all in a kiss, and Sherlock knows right then that John Watson is his forever, his eternity, his land after five hundred years at sea. ‘John-‘

‘You love me,’ John breathes, and Sherlock smiles giddily, because he does, he absolutely does, more than anything, and it is the most brilliant feeling he’s ever experienced. ‘I love you, definitely, I love you, it’s only ever been you, John.’

John sits up, pulling Sherlock with him so they’re kneeling in front of each other, staring into each other’s eyes. ‘How can it only ever have been me? I’ve been alive for a fraction of your life, Sherlock.’

Sherlock smiles, because it might be impossible and they might be doomed already, but for now John Watson is his. ‘It doesn’t matter how, John. All that matters is that it’s only ever been you. Only you.’

Now they’re kissing again, holding each other so close that they are two halves of one whole, an end and a beginning, a gift and a curse all mixed up together. They are John Watson and Sherlock Holmes and, Sherlock thinks giddily, he’s finally where he was destined to be.


End file.
